ld prosecute
War with her largest ruine? how hath Fraunce
Sowed such inveterate hate within your brest
That to confound him you will undergoe
The orphans curse, the widdowes teares and cries
Whose husbands in these warres have lost their lives?
Ere you contend discourse your grievances.

_Lew_. False Ferdinand, his sonne, ravisht our child.

_Ferd_. Now by my knighthood, honor, and this gage,
Fraunce, Ile approve you wrong that Ferdinand.

_Phil_. Who can accuse him?

_Lew_. That did Rodorick.

_Pem_. That Traytor for a deed so false, so foule,
Hath answerd it by this even with his soule.

_Nav_. Our sonne and valours bloome, th[e] English Pembrooke,
By Lewes treachery were butchered.

_Phil_. Were the whole world joynd in so false a thing,
Alone Ide combat all and cleere the King.

_Pem_. Fraunce never had designe in their two deaths.

_Nav_. He leagu'd with Burbon that destroyd my child.

_Lew_. He poysoned her deservedly.

_Phil_. That deed of shame
Cut off his life and raced out Burbons name.

_Lew_. His death shalbe thy death, for thy hand slue him.

_Nav_. This other in the battell twice to day
Made us retire. Fraunce, shall we joyne in league
Till we have veng'd our malice on these knights?

_Lew_. Navar, agreed. Souldiers, this kyld your Lords.

_Nav_. And this our fame. Let's mangle them with swords.

_Pem_. Take truce a while with rage: heare what we'le urge.
This knight slew Burbon, this inforst you fly;
Therefore you hate them and for hate they die.
Since then true vertue is disfigured,
Desert trod downe, and their heroick worth
In justice doomd on Traytors merits Death,
Behold these two, which thousands could not daunt,
But your ingratitude, on bended knee
Yeeld up their swoords to bide your tyranny.
'Twas he kild Burbon; if you love him dead,
Shew it by paring off this valiant head:
Do you the like. To this revenge apace:
They feare not threats, and scorne to beg for grace.

_Lew_. And they shall find none.

_Nav_. Knights, tryumph in death:
We are your headesmen, kings shall stop your breath.

_They take off their helmets_.

_Lew_. Philip, my sonne!

_Nav_. Young Ferdinand my joy!

_Pem_. Call them not sonnes, whom you would fayne destroy.

_Nav_. Hold not our age too long in deepe suspect.
Art thou [my] Ferdinand?

_Lew_. And thou [my] Philip?

_Ferd_. We are the friendly sonnes of adverse parents,
Your long lost children: though supposed slayne,
We live and